PART THREE

Blacksburg, Virginia

Making a smiley face in cereal is a real challenge.

Twenty-four years of refined experience have taught me to: 1) ensure the perfect milk-to-cornflake ratio, and 2) act quickly before the cornflakes sink to the bottom. However, attempting this on a tour bus is a struggle I hadn't anticipated.

The kitchen sits on a tight, narrow platform near the back of the bus with a microwave wedged between a single storage unit and a grimy oven. Wooden knobs jut out and bulge at every angle, bearing identical greasy hand towels, leaving the space so cramped that I hardly have room to maneuver my spoon.

By the time I've tucked myself into the seat that overlooks the side street, my cornflakes have gone soggy, merging into one dejected clump at the bottom of my bowl. I chew absentmindedly, thinking about anything and everything that isn't him…

But somehow he remains unnervingly present. When I slip the spoon between my teeth, I can feel the weight of his mouth against mine, warm and soft and sweet. When I pause to rub an itch on my stomach, I feel his fingers peeling back the fabric of my sweater, pressing the pad of his thumb into my hip. It's all-consuming and sets me on edge.

I want to scream. Or cry. Or punch something.

Maybe I would've if Josh and Derrick weren't seated directly across from me. They're playing Skyrim again, perched on the edge of their seats, eyes glazed over. Giving up on my cereal entirely, I train my eyes on the screen, the game proving to be a welcome distraction.

Derrick's character—a hooded, shifty-looking creature wearing some kind of medieval armor—keels over suddenly before he's engulfed in pixilated flames.

"Fuck! Why'd you try to sneak under that destruction spell?" Josh snarls, outraged.

Derrick sinks back into the sofa, pressing his hands into his face. "I'm an idiot."

"I hate you so much right now, you know that?"

With a disgruntled grunt, Derrick lifts his head and frowns. "Right, because when you ate the jarrin root Astrid gave you after she warned you it was the deadliest poison in the world—"

"That was two years ago, how was I supposed to know it had alchemical properties?"

I clear my throat noisily, a not-so-gentle reminder of my presence. Both heads snap up in perfect unison. Josh flicks a button on his remote, pausing the game.

"What's up, C?"

"Nothing much," I reply, grinding the cornflakes to mush with the underside of my spoon.

"Why do you look so weird?"

"Uh, thanks."

"C'mon, you know what I mean."

"Todd and his evil girlfriend are engaged," I concede in the same tone I might've used to describe maggot-infested gums. After Todd's call last night, I'd been virtually at a loss for words. Still, Todd's gushing—essentially a series of "I'm so fucking happy" and "this is the best day of my life" on a loop—seemed like a sign from the universe that I shouldn't delve into my unfavorable opinion of his wife-to-be. Instead, I congratulated him with feigned enthusiasm before I returned to brooding over the cab-driving, goldfish-owning He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

"Hot Olivia?" Derrick yelps, straightening in his seat.

"She's just the worst. And he's only twenty-one—what on earth plagued him to…ugh! Did I mention she's the worst?"

"Only every time you bring her up."

"Listen," Josh cuts in firmly, "At least you'll rarely see her. I mean, you're going on tour soon, right?"

"Hate to break it to you, my friend, but we've been on tour since February."

"I mean your own tour," he sighs with a theatrical eye roll. "The Claire Lyons headline US tour."

Swallowing hard, I force a nod as if I haven't been repressing that idea for weeks now. "Right, we'll see," is all I can manage. I glance down at my bowl and realize that I've crushed my cereal to a pulp. Long gone is any trace of a cornflake smile.

xxx

Blacksburg, Virginia

My wreck of a mental state translates into a less than inspiring performance.

I trip over an amp cable twice and forget the lyrics to the 2nd verse in Fairfield during my set. Flushed pink and nauseous with shame, I make a dash for the green room after the lights dim without so much as a glance in the boys' direction. Josh catches my arm when I brush past him, but I shake him off, perhaps too aggressively. I'll have to apologize later.

When I reach the green room, I lean my backside against the door, pressing it into its frame with a sharp click. My heartbeat pumps in my ears. I take a steadying breath before I push myself upright. Peeling off my leggings, I lift my eyes to the full-length mirror set into the wall across from me. My gaze trails up my legs—bare, pimpled with goosebumps, and pasty white—to my face, coated in sweat and etched with worry. Relax, I hiss inwardly. You're fine.

I slip into a pair of too-snug jeans, slick my hair into a knot at the base of my neck, and drag myself outside.

I've only taken three steps when suddenly my stomach floats to my chest the way it does on the Dragon Coaster at Playland Park. I stop in my tracks.

Stupid leather jacket, stupid black Converse, stupid-

"Cam," I blurt. It sounds strangled, wheezy.

"Hi. I'm glad I caught you."

I'm not entirely sure what I'm supposed to say to that. He's leaning against the passenger door of his car, just like yesterday, with his ankles crossed and arms folded. His hair is mussed, as if he's been frenetically running his hands through it. He looks…handsome. I don't let myself dwell on it.

"So, busy night?" I try to sound offhand, weightless. Cam takes a step forward and shrugs.

"I, uh—I guess so. Except I'm not here for work. I mean, I am, but I also—I was waiting for you," he admits with the slightest frown. "I wanted to give you this." He nearly closes the space between us then, pacing forward until I can smell his leather. My pulse races.

Cam reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a plastic CD case. A paper insert with his squat, blocky handwriting scrawled across the front serves as the cover.

To: Claire

From: Cam

I can't tear my eyes away from the way he writes my name or from the lopsided smiley face inked by the bottom edge. I hear his breathing hitch when at first I don't respond.

"I put Hole on there, and some Blind Melon. Electric Six, too."

"Cam—"

"I promised I'd make you a mixtape. So…here you go."

I finally meet his gaze. I drink it in gluttonously, the rings of blue and green, framed by dark lashes and heavy lids. "Thank you," I murmur finally, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear just to have something to do with my free hand.

"Do you need a ride anywhere?" He asks. His mouth curls and his eyebrows are set in an upward slant—Cam looks so hopeful. Still, I don't even consider his offer, something like warning bells ringing in my ears.

"No thanks. I'm just gonna—" I trail off, jerking my chin in the direction of the bus.

It's still light enough outside to detect the exact moment Cam's face falls. To his credit, he recovers quickly. "Right."

"Yeah."

"You're going home, then?"

"Back to Westchester."

Emotive, afflicted Cam is no more. If he's upset, he conceals it beautifully. He simply shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and shoots me a tight smile. It's the kind of smile you offer a stranger who steps into the elevator with you. A smile of unreserved indifference.

"Bye, Claire," he says finally, his words clipped.

His back to me, Cam slouches off to his car. I subconsciously dig a corner of the CD case into the pad of my thumb until it aches. It isn't until I drop my head that I'm conscious of the wetness that stings the corners of my eyes.

xxx

Brooklyn, New York

New York's most populous borough welcomes us with cool weather, a stark contrast from Blacksburg's balmy afternoons. Still, I tug the open the window of our bus and peer outside, oddly comforted by the peaks of Flatbush and Montague. My hair swells with the wind when I rest my chin on the window ledge.

Someone behind me clears their throat. I drop into my seat, a frown set on my face before I even turn around. Josh is leaning against the protruding wall that separates the kitchen from the lounge.

"Dempsey wanted me to tell you that we're almost at our place," he says passively, staring at his fingernails with the same sort of severe concentration I reserve for Ken Burns documentaries.

I sigh, pushing myself off the couch and taking a step in his direction. Josh has been acting unusually cold towards me since I brushed past him in the wings. As he stands here in front of me, pointedly avoiding my eyes, my stomach twists with guilt. "Hey, sorry for being a dick earlier," I offer solemnly, extending my arm self-consciously to pat his shoulder. "It's just been a hard week."

Josh sighs dramatically, but I'd have to be blind to miss the corners of his lips twitching. "Was it 'cause of Todd and his girlfriend—uh, fiancé?"

"Exactly," I reply as firmly as I can. "That's all."

Liar.

Josh smiles sympathetically and squeezes my hand. "I'm sorry you feel shitty. But who knows—maybe it'll be alright. People can surprise you."

Feeling equal parts unconvinced, frustrated, and overwhelmed, I imagine the forced smile I shoot Josh looks more like a scowl.

xxx

Westchester, New York

I'm home two hours before Todd steps into the apartment. This gives me ample time to slip his lamb biryani leftovers into the microwave and dig the comics out from under Todd's stack of miscellaneous paperwork. As a college drop-out who splits his time between an internship at a small strategic marketing agency based in Brooklyn and a Panera Bread, Todd leaves an impressive assortment of paraphernalia lying around the apartment. Sometimes I find leaflets on customer acquisition and optimizing potential, sometimes I unearth old shift schedules, and sometimes his Writing 101 essays from freshman year pop up too.

Partway through Hagar the Horrible, I register the clink of keys being inserted into the doorknob. I lift my head from the newspaper just as Todd saunters in wearing slacks and a navy button-up. It's internship day, then. He loosens his tie wearily and rubs an eye with his free hand. He freezes when his gaze lands on the kitchen table.

"Is that my Indian from last night?"

"I don't know, did you order lamb biryani with extra potatoes last night?"

"Okay, wise-ass."

"You're right, it's definitely yours. Who else would ask for extra potatoes?"

"The supple texture complements the gristly lamb! Dickhead!"

Laughing, I inch my chair to the left to offer him space. Todd sinks into the seat beside me and jerks his chin at my plate. Due to the severe scarcity of cilantro leaves in the to-go box, my smiley face is missing an eye.

"He lost this one during the war," I explain gravely, "Poor guy was never the same."

Todd smiles and pulls his phone out from his pocket. I redirect my attention to the comics. We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes until Todd turns to me.

"So Olivia's coming over for dinner tonight."

Something unpleasant roils in my gut. I swallow before responding. "Was there a question buried in there, or—?"

"Nope. Just letting you know."

I try not to stew. "Okay, then."

Todd makes several audible clicks with his tongue, clearly unsatisfied. "Claire. What's wrong?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You're not stupid, you know what I'm referring to."

Jesus. I cross my arms and fix my expression into what I hope is something reasonably neutral. "Enlighten me, then."

"You hate Olivia."

"Todd, don't be st—"

"No, I mean it. You treat her like trash. She's my fiancé, Claire. She's family."

I don't hate Olivia. Really, I don't. I think she's shallow and supercilious, but I know she makes Todd happy. I should explain this to him, or apologize, or assure him that I think Olivia has great tits. Anything but twist the knife further. Instead, I give in to the tension and frustration of the past two days, and I deadpan: "I think it's stupid to get engaged so young."

Todd yelps at this, rising from his chair in one fluid motion. "I'm an adult, Claire. I pay rent, I have two jobs—"

"For fuck's sake, you work at Panera Bread," I snap before I can help myself. I watch as Todd's face contorts into a grimace—eyebrows knit together, upper lip curled, nose creased with wrinkles.

"I'm an adult," he repeats slowly, furiously.

"You're my little brother! How can you be engaged?" I exclaim, tossing my hands in the air. A grain of basmati rice is suddenly airborne.

Todd pauses and then clears his throat, his eyes flicking cagily across my expression. "Are you…jealous?" His tone is tentative and wary. It's the same voice he used to use with our parents when clarifying whether or not he was still grounded.

I must look visibly upset, because he gently extends a hand. I jerk back swiftly. "Of course I'm not jealous," I sputter, feeling mortified. "Why would I be jealous? My life is great. In fact, I'm living my dream."

Todd blinks. "Seriously? You tour once a week and then what—wallow alone in the house waiting for a record label to snatch you up?"

"Screw you. That's not fair," I spit, standing to jab my pointer finger into his chest. "I'm trying!"

"You absolutely are not."

"You're practically a kid—you don't know shit!"

"Goddammit, Claire!" He brings his open hand down and smacks the table. I jump. "You know what I think? I think you're lonely. The smiley breakfasts, the comics…you're living in the past—we're not 7 anymore!"

"I'm not lonely, I have friends," I practically seethe. "I just don't have time to date. Excuse me for not accepting a marriage proposal two months after purchasing my first legal Bud Light." I ignore his other jab. I'm fine.

"You're scared."

"This conversation is over."

I don't spare him a second glance as I storm out of the kitchen. Our apartment is so small, the eight steps I take toward the door don't have quite the dramatic flair I would've liked. I race up the stairs of our complex to the top floor, which is essentially an abandoned space that management has been trying to develop into three new residential units. There haven't been contractors over in what feels like months, so I come up here sometimes to write—and also, apparently, to throw tantrums.

A hot tear slips down my cheek. I press it into the sleeve of my sweater before it can dribble off my chin.

I'm fine. It seems like my mantra these days. I should get it tattooed across my forehead, right beside "coward," and "look at me, I'm in a rut." I kick the cement wall with the toe of my sneaker and squeeze my eyes shut, refusing to let myself cry further.

Too scared to headline a tour. Kick. Too scared to commit to a relationship. Kick.

Todd has always been a proactive person. He played basketball—albeit poorly—for 15 years. He pursued Olivia for seven months before she agreed to a first date. Hell, he was even sure enough of himself to drop out of college. Apart from our affinity for Asian takeout, we are nothing alike. I like routines and control. But—and it stings to admit—Todd is right. Sticking to comfort has left me feeling increasingly lost. I stop kicking, resting my forehead against the wall instead, wishing I could sink into the cement and disappear for a few eternities.

It takes all of three minutes for the stairwell door to pop open. Slightly ashamed, I already have the skeleton of a reconciliatory speech drafted in my head. With a firm exhale, I force myself upright and turn.

"Todd, I—"

I freeze. Because it isn't Todd standing across the room in his decorous office getup, arms outstretched in regret, but Olivia. Only…she isn't looking for a hug, and she's more daisy dukes than she is business casual.

"What are doing here?"

"He said you'd be upstairs."

"And since we're such great pals, you thought you'd stop by for some girl talk?" Olivia lifts a shapely, microbladed brow, and I regret my words instantly. "Sorry," I append quickly, "Bad day."

"What'd you say to Todd? He looks like someone just ran over his dog," she ventures with an impatient huff.

"That'd be tricky, seeing as he doesn't own one."

"Can you please be serious for, like, two seconds?"

This sobers me. "Sorry," I repeat, though not entirely sure I mean it. Olivia isn't quite at the top of my people-I'd-like-to-have-heart-to-hearts-with list.

"What's wrong with you?"

"I'm a wimp," I assert humorlessly. "In more ways than one. Todd called me out, I yelled back, etcetera."

"God." She flings her eyes to the ceiling in flagrant exasperation. "Life is scary. Just deal with it." I catch myself wondering what exactly she has to be scared about, but I appreciate the gesture regardless.

"Uh, thanks, Olivia."

She licks her bottom lip and smiles. "Go make up with Todd. He promised to come to SoulCycle with me, but he won't enjoy himself if his chakras are out of balance."

I blink. "…Okay. There's something I need to do first, though." SoulCycle might have to wait, I think to myself as I reach into my pocket for my keys.

xxx

Hagerstown, Maryland

I've barely entered Maryland before I register the flashing light on my fuel gauge. Muttering under my breath, I pull off at the next exit and steer myself to a Texaco.

It isn't until I've got my fuel cap off and the pump in my hand that my gaze lands on the convenience store directly behind the gas station.

I realize that there's something I need to pick up.

xxx

Ferrum, Virginia

Cam's face blanches when he pulls back his door.

I'm not sure what I was expecting. I wait for him to say something, to react somehow, but he continues to stare, pale and unblinking. My heart begins to sink. Instinctively, I offer a wave. For fuck's sake, Claire. I snap my arm down, mortified, but this seems to shake him out of his stupor.

When he finally speaks, his voice is thick with fatigue. "It's three in the morning."

"To be fair, you did bring this upon yourself." I try to keep my tone light, as if my stomach doesn't feel like it's been upended and lodged in my throat.

"Oh?"

"You opened the door."

"Because I thought I was getting robbed!"

"So…you were just going to invite the robber in?"

"I—fuck, it's a bit early for fully lucid processing, okay?" He drags a hand down his face and then across the nape of his neck. I will myself not to dwell on how attractive I find him right now, all tousled hair and baggy clothes. Finally, he meets my gaze. I swallow noisily. "Claire. What are you doing here?"

I feel my hands shake and furtively slip them behind my back. Suddenly, I'm fifteen years old again and about to ask Chris Abeley to the Sadie Hawkins dance. Don't be a coward, I all but shriek at myself.

"I like you, Cam."

It could be a trick of the dim hallway lighting, but I swear his ears turn pink.

"Yesterday, you made it seem—"

"I know what I made it seem like," I cut him off with a wince, not exactly desperate to relive our last interaction. "But I like you. I was scared because I'm no good at this. At dating and—and at putting myself out there, or trying things that make me uncomfortable. But I like you."

"You said that already." He's almost smiling.

"Yeah, well, it's true. I like you, and I like your stupid goldish. I like the mixtape you made me. I listened to it four times on my way here."

"You drove here from Westchester?" Cam exclaims, his eyebrows nearly disappearing behind the dark hair swept across his forehead.

"How else would I have gotten here?"

"But it's like, what, seven hours?"

"Eight hours. Plus an extra twenty minutes because I got caught in an unfortunate altercation with the man at the Texaco convenience store counter."

"What are talking about?"

"36 bags of Sour Patch Kids. The guy nearly burst an artery while ringing me up."

Finally, Cam takes notice of the two plastic bags at my feet. He squats briefly and pulls out a pack of Sour Patch Kids Tropical, turning it over and over in his palm as if inspecting it. He seems to have stopped breathing.

"I've reached my quota for sweeping romantic gestures, though. Don't expect anything this grand for…oh, I'd say another twenty-four years."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'll need some time to recharge."

"Makes sense."

And finally—finally—Cam cracks. Relief floods his face as he takes a step forward. "I'm glad you came. Claire, I—"

I launch myself at him before he can finish, and we stagger into the vestibule.

"What—"

"Shh—shut up, please shut up." It pours out of my mouth, soft and garbled, between every hasty kiss. "I just want to kiss you." He reaches blindly for my waist until a finger finally catches in a belt loop. Cam draws our hips together and I sigh into his mouth.

"I mean it," he continues breathlessly, pulling back briefly to drag his thumb across my cheek. "And thanks for the candy. My cab driver ratings will skyrocket."

"They're for you, not your patrons," I start to chastise, before Cam hums against my mouth and everything else slips my mind.

After a few minutes, I unhook my arm from around his neck and determinedly pop the button of my jeans. Cam freezes, his hand catching mine in the process of tugging down the zipper.

"What are you doing?"

"If you don't know what I'm doing, you might want to consider taking a Health Ed class. Or calling your parents. Have you heard of the birds and the bees?"

"Cute," Cam deadpans, a deep crease wedged between his eyebrows. "I'm serious, Claire. Should we talk about this first?"

"I want to. I'm sure. Do you…?"

"Fuck, of course I do," he manages breathlessly.

His smile sets me at ease. I tilt my head to press a kiss to his jaw, bristly with stubble. "Are you sure? I could've sworn you mentioned something about lacking 'fully lucid processing—?'"

Cam snorts. "You think you're funny."

Pink in the face, I respond by tugging my shirt over my head. The collar catches on an earring, but Cam just laughs and eases it off gently. My heart hammers so loudly I genuinely wonder if he can hear it.

He sinks his hands into the curve of my waist and ducks his head. Every kiss he presses down my neck is warm and wet and sends me reeling.

"I'm glad I met you," I murmur almost sheepishly, my hands interlocked around his neck. He hums against my bare collarbone before pulling away.

"I'm glad I met you, too."